


covet

by cherrybirds



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, This is a no angst zone, a little bit of pining for flavour, akaashi is a violinist, im sorry they just invented love, musician akaashi au, soft because everything i write is soft, this is literally some grade a SCHMOOP but who doesnt love schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:54:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25004998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrybirds/pseuds/cherrybirds
Summary: It’s a simple tune, probably one Akaashi knows like the back of his hand. The notes lift with ease, sink back down into something more melancholy before returning smoothly to their previously chipper lilt. It’s really something mesmerising, to watch the way he plays so fluently, with the ease of water running down a mountain spring. The bow moves smoothly against the buzzing strings, Akaashi’s fingers running up and down the neck too fast for Bokuto to even really comprehend the movements.He's fucked, it seems.(In which Bokuto Koutarou walks into the wrong room at the right time, and suddenly everything is different.)
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 7
Kudos: 92





	covet

**Author's Note:**

> hello all this is entirely fuelled on fka twigs and bat for lashes, but then again so is everything i write tbh  
> this is written entirely based on my google knowledge and the stuff i've Osmosed from my extremely talented musician friend  
> maybe one day i'll write an au i'm actually equipped to write  
> the title has absolutely no relevance it's just a good ass song by basement

It’s a simple task. A thick pile of documents grasped in his arms diligently, white paper freshly printed with crisp black text. There’s a post-it note, an invasive shade of green-tinted yellow, placed delicately on top. It’s inscribed with the words ‘ _ TAKE TO ROOM A12!!’ _ . Underlined twice, in black ink that phases in and out where the pen has started to run dry. There’s a distant feeling of pride at being trustworthy enough for such an errand, though mostly Bokuto is just thankful for the excuse to leave the classroom, even if only momentarily. Thursdays drag the longest, he finds. Maybe it’s the proximity to the weekend, or the tantalising knowledge of Thursday afternoon volleyball practice dangling at the forefront of his brain, but something about Thursdays just gets under Bokuto’s skin like a bad itch. Time becomes thick with smog, dragged out, weary. It makes his legs jump with repressed energy under their iron desk frame constraints, makes his thumb press and click his pen incessantly, makes his fingers vibrate against the carved up wood of his desk as if he’s a broken washing machine. 

Any kind of interruption to break up the minutes is a welcome one. There’s a light patter of rain against the windows as he strides through the empty hallways, the occasional raised teacher voice or low level mumbling of a lively classroom providing a respite from the constant noise. Usually, noise doesn’t bother Bokuto. He’s pretty noisy himself- it’s just another way to work out the constant thrum of energy turning over inside his brain. To make noise is a way to express emotion, energy, interest, disinterest. He’s comfortable with noise. But today, the restless agitation that cascades over his every sense only seems to be exacerbated by the  _ constant  _ dripping, the unceasing knocking of rain against hard glass. It feels like it’s all building for an explosion of some kind, a crescendo of restive frustration. As it is, however, he’s simply on an errand, and he’s expected back quickly, so there’s no opportunity for release beyond the quick stride of his steps. He can tell already he’s going to be in for a rough practice later on. 

He turns a corner onto corridor A- documents tucked securely under his arm now, so he can fuss at his hair absentmindedly with his free hand as he walks. The post-it note has fluttered away at some point on his expedition, but he doesn’t remember seeing it drop off. The corridor is long, narrow. Its classrooms are mostly in disuse, occasionally used for last minute room changes and private tutoring sessions. Not much is visible through the windows on each door, most rooms unlit and obscured with piled up chairs or abandoned teaching equipment. It’s considerably quieter than the other corridors he’d passed through, save for a faint sort of humming sound that nestles behind the rain carefully. It would probably be inaudible to someone less vigorously attuned to their surroundings. He comes to the end of the corridor, stops, considers. There’s two doors, pine in colour, neither of which are equipped with a window unlike the rest of the doors along the corridor. A-12A and A-12B. He mumbles a curse with an exaggerated frown for a second, glances with mild apprehension between the two classroom signs as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. He’s more alert to his surroundings than most with an excellent mind for volleyball stratagem, sure, but his ability to retain simple day-to-day information (such as the classroom number on a post-it note) is, admittedly, less than stellar. Especially on a long Thursday, where the rain just  _ constantly  _ raps against his brain and the long lesson periods blur his thoughts with the sheer amount of disjointed information and study material. 

He just sighs, deflates a moment before perking back up with renewed vigor. Chances are the classrooms are abandoned anyway. His hand closes decisively against the cool steel of the door handle to classroom A-12A, pushes down with a soft ‘ _ click’ _ as the door swings cooly open. Immediately he knows he’s made a mistake. The previously muffled hum of strings seems to burst forth as soon as the door is open, cutting through the muffled din of rain with sudden clarity and volume. There’s a brief second of surprised dissonance in the tune, before the notes cut short completely and the rain resumes around the gap in the air. He simply stands stock still in the doorway, documents in hand, and blinks. There’s a tutor seated who stares back, old with thinning hair and a crease decorating each cheek. That’s not what stills Bokuto completely, renders him useless to do much else beyond gape. 

It’s the boy sitting opposite the tutor, who’s staring at Bokuto with a vaguely raised eyebrow and a cloud of confusion in his eyes. Eyes that, at the risk of sounding kind of corny, captivate. They’re deep, glinting with an indistinguishable colour under the poor lighting of the makeshift tutoring room. It doesn’t matter- he doesn’t need to analyse the colour profile to be caught up in them anyway. Framed softly with long eyelashes, punctuated by the black strands of hair curling demurely around the sides of his face. There’s a deep russet violin held carefully in his arms, long fingers curled finely against the bow as it lies stationary against the neck. The varnish of the violin seems to bounce the meek glow from the ceiling light directly into his face, projecting an almost renaissance-esque quality. He reminds Bokuto distantly of the glossy cover of an art magazine, the kinds he skims over briefly on his weekly excursions to buy his sports magazines. Maybe he should stop skimming over them if they have faces like that.

There’s the clearing of a throat, and suddenly he’s overtly aware that he’s just stood in the doorway, staring. However, he doesn’t fail to note that the violinist is staring right back at him with a mirroring level of intensity that goes immediately to his head, evoking the sudden urge to straighten up and square his shoulders like some kind of preening bird. It’s oddly magnetic, just staring at each other. 

“Ah, I’m sorry! Wrong room. These-” He lifts the documents with a sheepish grin, holds them out to be observed. “- They’re meant for next door. Don’t mind me!” He’s retreating, eyes barely lifting off the violinist’s face as he shuffles backwards. He stops for a beat, allows himself a moment to ponder his options as he lingers in the doorway, the door half closed behind him. He’s nothing if not a boundless source of confidence, so it doesn’t take him long to consider the outcomes and press forward. 

“Oh, I heard your playing, by the way! It’s really beautiful!” He offers, beaming as he sticks his head back through the doorway momentarily. There’s a brief moment of surprise flickering across the boy’s face, followed by a faint rush of pink and a small, proud smile. He nods in gratitude, to which Bokuto’s grin only widens. With that he clicks the door shut behind him, continuing on to classroom A-12B. 

It’s an innocent lie, of course. He could barely hear the playing through the sound of the rain and the muffling of the heavyset wooden door, and what he did hear was swiftly cut short. As far as Bokuto’s concerned, a small white lie is a meagre price to pay for the responding nod of gratitude and mild blush. The rain outside has finally weaned off, leaving the corridor in blissful silence that soothes along his nerves as he walks, arms swinging. Just as he’s coming to the end of the corridor, the faint lilt of strings picks up again. Thursday feels considerably less murky with pent up agitation, suddenly. 

  
  


\---

Immediately, as soon as the school day has concluded and he’s free to pull out his phone, he’s rapidfire texting Kuroo about the newfound (and possibly exaggerated) love of his life. It earns him an audio message of Kuroo’s wheezing laughter in response, as well as a long string of vaguely illegible texts littered with typos. 

It all only serves to spur him on further. 

\---

He finds himself loitering in the hallways the next day, staring down the poster boards plastered with announcement flyers and club timetables that line the walls. It’s a congregation of far too many eye-strainingly bright colours, exclamation points and terribly designed recruitment sheets for Bokuto’s brain to comprehend for a moment, but his then his eyes catch on it. Simple print on creased white paper, pinned neatly underneath the timetable for the Fukurodani girls’ swim team. Fukurodani Academy orchestra, Wednesday and Friday afternoons in the main assembly hall, followed by a list of names for contacting if needed. 

He doesn’t even know if the mysterious violin boy plays for the orchestra. He doesn’t know if orchestras even  _ have  _ violins- logically, he can make the assumption that they must do, but he doesn’t actually  _ know _ . He doesn’t know what he’d do, doesn’t know what he’d say, doesn’t know how to phrase the words ‘ _ Hi! I know we met for about 3 seconds yesterday, but I’m in love with you now! Will you play for me and never ever stop please?’ _ in a way that is even marginally less creepy. It’s probably a gift then, that he’s deterred by exactly zero of these very logical obstructions in his quest for violin-related romance. The relentless hype-ups he gets hourly from Kuroo’s text messages certainly help, too. 

The hours of the day slide by with ease, redolent of a paper boat on a slow summer stream. The air feels syrupy, golden with the light as the afternoon sun arches over the sky. It makes everything feel almost languid as he moves through the hallways and down the stairwells to approach the main assembly hall. He’s early as he slips in through the unlocked door, settles himself into a seat at the very back, mostly obscured amongst stacked boxes and piles of extra chairs. It’s a large, echoing room, a small stage set at the front facing several rows of hard plastic stacking chairs. The gilded shimmer of the afternoon sun struggles to break through the heavy curtains thick with dust that smother the windows, casting the entire hall in a dim glow, broken up only by the occasional strip of gold-leaf sunlight where the curtains part to let it through. He feels like he shouldn’t be here, which only makes it feel all the more exciting that he is. 

A large group filters through the door, slowly gaining members as the minutes pass until finally culminating in what appears to be a complete group, as well as two music teachers. Nobody has noticed him, or if they have, they’ve failed to acknowledge it. Usually Bokuto covets the eyes of an attentive crowd, but just this once, he’s happy to remain unseen amongst the dust and the boxes. It’s hard to see through the huddled heads and thick murmurs if his mystery boy is there, though as soon as the group organises themselves and takes their seats, his eyes latch almost magnetically onto that black head of hair and that deep toned violin. He’s tempted to throw his hands up in victory, but he merely grins into the air and sends Kuroo a vibrant text of confirmation instead. The response is immediate- a long, long,  _ long _ string of emojis that essentially translates to ‘FUCK YES’. He feels inclined to agree. 

It’s unsettling, to watch the orchestra set into motion. He’s used to a different kind of noise- noise that’s disordered, untidy, wild. The noise of synthetic leather lashing against the wooden gym flooring, the noise of cheering and jumping and whoops of victory, or perhaps groans of resignation, followed by the rustling of fabric as the team swoops into their round of flying falls. He’s used to noise unregulated, noise that’s reckless with emotion. The orchestra is different- it feels wrong to even call it  _ noise _ . It’s delicate, orderly, notes that fly up and down with the ease of a bird in flight, ricocheting dramatically against the distant stone walls of the hall. It’s striking- how easily it all flows together in tandem, violin strings buzzing perfectly in time with the glinting brass of trumpets, trombones, tubas. There’s emotion in this noise, too, but it’s not the untamed emotion he usually associates with loud sound. This emotion is fragile, soft. Understated, yet even he (and he’s, by his own admission, no connoisseur of classical music) feels slightly taken in with it all. It’s very sudden and mildly uncomfortable, the realisation of exactly how out of place he currently is. 

The unnamed violinist is sat in the right wing of the orchestra formation, closest to the front. Bokuto can’t make out much under the dim lighting and the distance of multiple rows of chairs, but even without a clear view he’s almost mesmerised by the easy ebb and flow of the bow against the neck of his violin. There’s a layer of sharp concentration painted across the boy’s face as he plays, hands carefully repositioning the violin every now and again so that it sits just so. His eyes cut into the sheet music displayed in front of him, not flickering away even once. 

The practice lasts for about an hour, before the teachers are calling for silence and running through some final reminders as they prepare to leave. He makes his swift exit to the mumbling of chatter and the slithering noise of instruments being sheathed in their cases. He doesn’t know how he’s going to strike up a conversation here- it’s like until this moment, he hadn’t really stopped to consider he’s not actually in a romcom where he’ll just bump into the boy and they’ll fall effortlessly into conversation. He’s not stupid, or blind to the way social interaction works, he just likes to get ahead of himself. The indecisive nervousness of exactly  _ how  _ to begin his grand plan of woo-ing doesn’t have long to take root, however, as the violinist streams out of the hall behind a large group of students and immediately catches eyes with him. He could keep on walking, glance over Bokuto entirely, but for some reason he stops. He almost looks expectant. 

Well, he’s nothing if not devastatingly effective in talking incessantly at problems until they resolve themselves. 

“Hey hey hey, violin boy! Nice practice.-” He starts, beaming easily despite the uncertainty in his words that tugs at his chest. “-I mean, I’m allowed to sit in on that, right? I was curious! Plus, you guys are really good. Like, I didn’t even know we  _ had  _ an orchestra, y’know? But you’re really good!” He’s rambling- he can feel the words spilling over, pointlessly tries to construct a mental dam against them that continuously snaps under the pressure of each new word. A lot of the time, the strangers he talks to would be looking around for escape or would’ve stopped listening by now, but the boy opposite him seems largely unperturbed by the verbal torrent. 

Violin boy considers the words for a second, shifting the black instrument case strap that’s slung over his shoulder by an inch as he opens his mouth to speak.

“I-... ah, thank you. You’re allowed to sit in on those, yes. Not a lot of people do, but sometimes there’s a few who hang around.-” He stops, rakes his eyes gently over Bokuto’s face as if he’s analysing something. The deep pupils come to a rest as they glide up toward his hair, eyes almost dissecting the black and white strands with curiosity. He’s used to that. “-You’re the one who ran into my tutoring session yesterday, aren’t you?” 

“Sure am! Bokuto Koutarou. I captain the volleyball team. I just thought you sounded really cool, so once I saw the poster for it, I figured I’d poke around the orchestra. And hey! I’m glad I did, right?” He answers, lifting a hand lightly to smooth his hair back where the boy’s heavy gaze lingers. His eyes seem to almost follow the motion as Bokuto’s fingers push against the stiff strands, before his stare drops back down to meet against Bokuto’s own eyes. It’s almost undetectable on his carefully controlled face, but violin boy seems to be smiling in his own muted way, which in turn provokes an even wider, easy grin from Bokuto. 

“Akaashi Keiji. Thank you, again. I’ve never seen the volleyball team. I’ve heard impressive things, though.” He says. Akaashi Keiji. His voice is soft-spoken, yet firm with surety in his words as he speaks. It almost sends Bokuto into a state of partial melting. Perhaps it would, if he was a tad less concerned with Akaashi’s current opinion on him, or if he were about ten percent more dramatic. 

“Yeah! We’ve been to nationals twice, we’re gonna go again this year before I graduate! We might even win this time!-” He laughs at that, a soft snort at a joke that Akaashi doesn’t fully seem to get. His small smile stays through it nonetheless. “-So you’re a violinist, obviously. That’s cool as fuck! You play anything else?” He questions, his body turning direction slightly as they set from their previous standstill into a slow amble toward the general direction of the school’s gate. 

“Well…” Akaashi seems to hesitate for a beat, expression flattening. He’s hard to read, Akaashi, with a perpetually cool demeanour and tranquil expression. Bokuto is better at reading people than he looks, though. He doesn’t miss the mild shifts of Akaashi’s eyebrows as he seems to frown minutely, or the emphasis on the curl at the corner of his lip as he speaks. “I’m best at the violin. But I can play the guitar well enough, and I’m trying to learn some simple chords on piano. Emphasis on  _ trying.  _ My coordination is okay, but, I’d hardly say I can play it.” Are the words he settles on, tone wavering with doubt slightly before strengthening again. He adjusts the strap of the case again as they walk, fiddles with the plastic length adjuster absentmindedly. Bokuto finds his eyes repeatedly flickering back to the long, bony fingers of his hand. 

“Wow, Akaashi! That’s a lot. You must be really good at reading all the notes and stuff, I could never remember all of that. I think the only thing my brain  _ really _ latches onto is volleyball.” 

“I’m not that good at reading sheet music. There’s others who are better than me.” Is the doubtful response- immediately, Bokuto’s gearing up for a fierce rebuttal and an earnest affirmation of Akaashi’s supposed skills. It’s like Akaashi can somehow sense the words building, though, so he opens his mouth to speak before Bokuto even gets the chance. “I don’t really know much about volleyball, to be honest. What position do you play?” 

“Aha! I’m the ace! Basically all you need to know is that I’m the coolest and also just the best one full stop in the whole gym.-” He beams, places a hand against his chest in an exaggerated display of pride as he sways slightly mid-step. He thinks about his next words for a mere second, jumps foolhardy into it before he has a chance to psyche himself out. “You should also know that I  _ definitely  _ do not lie to cute boys about how cool and talented I am at volleyball. Not a single lie from this mouth, promise!” 

It’s a mild flirtation, just risky enough to make his chest tighten yet not risky enough to push Akaashi away completely. It hangs in the air for a moment before Akaashi’s precariously balanced flat expression breaks into a short laugh. It’s a better sound than any symphony- not that Bokuto even knows any symphonies. He doesn’t care to know them, because it goes without saying that they could never compare anyway. The thought almost triggers a rare, uncomfortable moment of self-awareness for Bokuto- awareness of exactly how quickly his feelings run ahead of him. Luckily for him, he’s too busy waxing poetic to give the realisation any real clarity. 

“I’m sure you’re very talented, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi reassures, face settled into a milder smile now. On anyone else (Kuroo) the remark might sound almost scathingly sarcastic, but on Akaashi, it’s undeniably genuine. 

They come to the gate, stop for a moment together. Bokuto has never been so angry that he doesn’t catch the train home. 

“Well, Akaashi, you’re really fun to talk to! I’ll see you around, okay?” He offers, an unspoken agreement hanging subtly behind his words. 

  
Akaashi just nods with a smile and a small wave, sets off in the direction of the train station. Bokuto’s extremely proud to say that he only looks back at Akaashi’s retreating form once. 

\---

He’s there three Fridays in a row, after that. Repeating the ritual. Waiting, listening, immediately jumping on the chance for conversation as soon as Akaashi is let out. He’d stop, if he thought he was pestering Akaashi, but somehow he just  _ knows _ that he isn’t. Maybe it’s the smiles he gets, or the bursts of laughter, or the fact that Akaashi actually  _ looks _ through the empty plastic seats for him on his third visit. Maybe it’s something infinitely more romanticised, like some kind of cosmic level destiny. Maybe he’s just too soppy for his own good. 

Either way, by the third Friday, he’s secured Akaashi’s number and instagram username, plus he’s officially made his nest next to Akaashi at lunchtimes, so he’s more than happy with the outcome. Akaashi doesn’t even seem to mind the double, triple,  _ quadruple _ texts. 

It’s like a mini victory when he starts getting double texts back. 

\--- 

With every passing Thursday, it’s like the practices get heavier and heavier. They go on for longer, linger in his overworked muscles for days. It’s a deep kind of ache- the best kind. Nationals loom over the team at all hours, the metaphorical great unwavering beast they haven’t quite managed to tame yet. It’s both terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure, to think. This is his last shot, and he’s going to go for the gold with everything that he has. They all will. 

They’re in their second hour of practice, the windows dimming lightly with the burgeoning evening. Usually he’d be getting tired by now, but the pure thought of nationals alone is enough to stoke the flames of zeal into engulfing his entire body. He’s working overtime, hitting every spike with double the force as he sails through the air. The sharp crack of the leather against their gym’s floor is all the demand for an encore that he needs. Coach tells him to slow down, Konoha tells him to stop or he’ll burn out, Yukie gives him a pointed look as she passes over the plastic water bottle. He knows, distantly, they’re right. But he can’t stop, or help it. The need to win is absolute. 

He’s mid-air when the gym doors open quietly, almost unnoticeable. Akaashi slips in through the opening, shuffles the door closed carefully behind him, turns to look across the court. Makes direct eye contact with Bokuto. Smiles.

He can’t be blamed for the way his hand misses the ball entirely, instead leaving it to bounce away sadly as he lands with a shoddily concealed stumble. A couple members of the team pause confusedly at that, turn to follow his gaze directly to Akaashi, who’s starting to look mildly embarrassed and somewhat uncomfortable. The violin case is tucked carefully against his shoulder, the gold of the zip glinting off the stark gym lighting. He must’ve had a long violin session if he’s here, Bokuto thinks. 

“Hey! ‘Kaashi!” He exclaims, bounding over with ease as he recovers from the wobbly landing. His face feels like it’s going to split with the grin. “Guys!-” He turns to the team now, claps a steady hand against the shoulder not saddled with a violin. “This is my friend, Akaashi! He’s in the orchestra!” 

There’s a wave of greetings at that, polite smiles, nods of acknowledgement. The team falls quickly back into their previous rhythm, leaving Akaashi and him to their own private conversation. 

“How come you’re here? Like, I’m  _ REALLY _ glad you’re here! But why?” He questions, grins to show he means it. He pointedly doesn’t lift his hand off Akaashi’s shoulder, nor does Akaashi move away from it.

“Well, my violin lesson ended about fifteen minutes ago, and I remembered you mentioning you practiced on Thursdays. I wanted to see and… offer support, I suppose. Since you come to the orchestra’s practices all the time.” He answers, ostensibly nonchalant in his words. He can pretend to be collected all he likes- Bokuto doesn’t miss the faint hum of peach flourishing lightly across his face. It’s not like Akaashi purposely acts that he  _ doesn’t  _ care- more that he seems reluctant (or even afraid?) to be caught in the scandalous act of openly feeling an emotion. Bokuto shares no such fears however, lifts his hand off of Akaashi’s shoulder only to envelop him in a supremely tight embrace of appreciation for a second. He only lets go as fast as he does because he’s scared to crush the violin. 

“Hey! You’re gonna make me cry over here, you softie! Sit tight on the benches, ‘kay? I’m gonna spike the shit out of that volleyball and you’re gonna be so impressed you’ll just fall into my arms. Count on it!” He quips, easy smile stretching into a confident grin. Akaashi just laughs lightly, flushes deeper for a second before he calms his face again. 

“Rest assured I’m counting on it. I’ll be hanging precariously at the edge of the bench so you can catch me.” Akaashi counters easily, eyes warm with humour as he heads for the aforementioned bench and sits down lightly, disembarks his violin case from its place strapped against his shoulder to place it carefully at his feet. It almost feels like he’s flirting back, Bokuto thinks, his own face warming lightly. It nearly feels as triumphant as the victory of a well placed spike. Maybe it even feels better. 

It’s like the stars are just aligning for him, because the next spike he hits is a particularly powerful one. It ricochets violently off the floor, collides with the wall before faltering in speed and rolling off somewhere Bokuto’s eyes don’t quite manage to follow. As soon as he’s steady against the floor again he whips around to give Akaashi an eager thumbs up, an exaggerated movie-esque wink. He in particular takes note of the way Akaashi’s eyes linger on his arms before their sights meet. Akaashi smiles back with encouragement, opens both palms up to signal a perfect ten score. He even pretends to sway against the edge of the bench lightly, fans an open hand with a comical flair against his face in a mock swoon. His movements aren’t large and vibrant in the way Bokuto’s are, but Bokuto doesn’t miss a single inch of his expression despite the more subtle nature of Akaashi’s actions. 

It’s like the pooling honey of warmth in his chest is the final push he needs to play at his peak, because every hit or block, every single  _ movement  _ suddenly feels invigorated with something indescribable. It’s like he’s hyper-aware of everything. It should be distracting, having Akaashi sat there smiling and offering unspoken encouragement and, honestly, just existing. He should be missing hits and stumbling like some kind of lovesick fool. Yet, it has the opposite effect. He feels sharper, like with Akaashi’s support he’s unbeatable. He doesn’t miss a single thing on that court, least of all the beam that occasionally flickers across Akaashi’s expression after a particularly adept play. 

The practice draws to its inevitable conclusion. The sky is darkening rapidly now, after all, and everyone still needs to make their way home. Bokuto’s body is rejoicing in the dismissal, but his innate need to show off and be seen at all times is wailing with the agony of having Akaashi’s displays of cheer and encouragement ripped out from under him. He ambles over to where Akaashi’s sat as he cools off, slumps down with his water bottle onto the pinewood bench. His ankle is knocking against Akaashi’s where he sits. He knows he’s not imagining it when Akaashi’s ankle reaffirms the contact by pressing closer. 

He stares at the blue plastic of the bottle lid for a beat before swinging his head to face Akaashi instead. His hair flops with the movement, almost completely knocked out of place now. Akaashi’s eyes seem undeniably drawn to the strands, before he finally turns his gaze down with mild reluctance to stare back at Bokuto’s face instead. 

“Sooo..? Whatcha think? Told you I was the coolest.” He pokes, directing a sunny beam mildly tinged with settling exhaustion toward Akaashi, who hums for a moment. 

“That was really impressive, Bokuto. You were like-” He hesitates, seems to make a last minute change in his words. The pang of disappointment at what he might’ve said weighs heavy in the air for a second before he continues. “- I don’t know. You were just really amazing. I’ll have to come swoon off the benches when you go to nationals.” 

At this, Bokuto barks a laugh, sets the mostly empty bottle down to lean into Akaashi’s side, slings a loose arm around his neck in what could arguably be excused as an expression of friendship. It’s not, but it could be. 

“Yes! You sure as fuck better! And then when we win, I’ll shout my proposal to you across the court, and you’ll cry, and I’ll cry, and we’ll be like those crazy celebrities. It’s perfect!” 

Akaashi snorts, no longer makes any effort to throw off the grin that overtakes his face. He’s leaning lightly into Bokuto’s arm, even despite the perspiration clinging to his skin from the intensity of practice. It’s a miniscule movement toward Bokuto, but he instantly sees and takes record of the mild shuffle inward with crystal clear focus. 

“Yeah. I can imagine it now, we’ll have to make sure there’s confetti. You know I’ll be there.” 

It’s kind of embarrassing how buttery with warmth he feels at the confirmation that Akaashi will, in fact, be there in the stands  _ cheering _ . For him. 

\---

Before he knows it, a month has passed. It’s easy with Akaashi. Time hardly feels like time at all. It’s perhaps even verging on disconcerting, the rapidity with which he and Akaashi seem to get comfortable with each other. Only a month, and already he feels as though he could trust Akaashi with anything, misses him when he’s not there, sees things and thinks to himself ‘ _ wow, that reminds me of Akaashi’.  _ He might be jumping ahead slightly, but he feels like he could call Akaashi (if not  _ the best)  _ one of his best friends. 

He’s leaning back in the wheeled desk chair, hands pushing away lightly from the desk in front of him. The metal supports of the chair’s back squeal slightly as he leans further, spinning for a moment before coming to a stop again, facing Akaashi. Currently, he’s sitting in Akaashi’s room for what was  _ intended  _ to be a study session. However, it’s turned into more of a ‘Bokuto spinning in a chair and talking about nothing at all while Akaashi studies’ session. Akaashi’s room is simple, much as Bokuto would expect. White cotton bed sheets, simple furnishings, clean white walls that lay bare except for some framed photographs and some study materials tacked up above the desk. The violin lays carefully in its case, propped against the wall. Next to it, an old-looking guitar littered with peeling stickers and a tabletop keyboard, surprisingly thin and sleek in appearance. A folded music stand leans against the desk- he’s nearly knocked it over three times today, and he’s only been here an hour. It’s meticulously clean and organised, but he does notice a sock poking out of a drawer here, a book left out to gather dust there. These small interludes of clutter amongst the rigid cleanliness almost feel like a form of intimacy- like he’s seeing the most vulnerable, unwaveringly human parts of Akaashi. 

As he spins, he takes notice of a large stack of thick music books lined up neatly on the oak bookshelf- green in colour, shining under the bedroom light. There’s mild fraying of the card at the tops of the covers, white lines running vertically along each book’s spine where the book has been folded and held open. It’s clear they’re well loved. 

“Hey, Akaashi. You know what I just realised?” He says, coming to a stall once more to look at Akaashi. He’s placed himself on the bed, sitting cross legged across the wide expanse of white cotton with a multitude of spiral notebooks and thick, brick-ish textbooks splayed out in front of him. His glasses are placed on the bridge of his nose and he’s tapping a pen against the corner of his lip as he considers the information in front of him- it’s almost hypnotic. He doesn’t look up from his work, simply offers an interested hum as a prompt to continue. 

“Well, I just noticed- you’ve never actually played for me before, right? Like, obviously I’ve seen the orchestra tons. And that one time when I ran into your lesson. But- you’ve never actually just played me a song!” He finishes. These words  _ do _ manage to attract Akaashi’s full attention. The work lays abandoned momentarily as he looks up, raises an eyebrow in what appears to be confusion at Bokuto’s comment. He spares a glance at the pile of instruments and musician paraphernalia before he speaks, adjusting his glasses absentmindedly. 

“Well… I guess not, no. Do you want me to?” At this, he glaces yet again at the instruments and his voice takes on a mildly nervous tone. Bokuto can’t tell if he’s offering or simply asking, but he jumps on the opportunity nonetheless. 

“Yes! You don’t have to if it would make you uncomfortable, obviously. But I’d really love to hear you play!” 

A beat passes, where Akaashi seems to consider. There’s a meaningful look between them for a second, before Akaashi nods and stands from the sheets, piling up all his books and carefully re-assembling the contents of his pencil case in preparation. Bokuto just whoops, spins once more in victory. Akaashi lifts the violin, peels back the case with ease, before settling once again in his previous spot with the violin and bow resting on his lap. He stares at it for a minute with a slightly furrowed brow, considers what to play, before evidently making a decision with a small nod to himself. 

“Could you pass me one of those books, please? Volume six.” Akaashi asks, nodding in the general direction of the bookcase. Bokuto leans across with ease, perhaps leans further than is absolutely necessary in an effort to stretch out his arms before Akaashi. He’s handing the book over with a radiant beam, fingers brushing against Akaashi’s across the glossy card of the cover as the book exchanges hands. 

He flicks through the pages with a soft sound for a second, settles on something. Eyes encased behind those delicately framed glasses read the page over once, pupils flickering with a catlike speed against the black and white print, before he folds the book lightly so it stays open and lays it flat in front of him. He lifts the violin without a word, positions it securely against the crook of his long, pale neck. The deeply rich colour of the violin body is more obvious than he’s ever seen it before as it lies open under Akaashi’s white bedroom light, varnish echoing the glow against the warm, almost auburn wood. There’s a moment of pause, and he begins. 

It’s a simple tune, probably one Akaashi knows like the back of his hand. The notes lift with ease, sink back down into something more melancholy before returning smoothly to their previously chipper lilt. It’s really something mesmerising, to watch the way he plays so fluently, with the ease of water running down a mountain spring. The bow moves smoothly against the buzzing strings, Akaashi’s fingers running up and down the neck too fast for Bokuto to even really comprehend the movements. He’s so focused, eyes flickering occasionally from the strings to the white pages as he plays. He glances at Bokuto occasionally, too, immediately looks away with an embarrassed flush as their eyes meet. The tune is excellently played, with not one errant sound amongst the waves of noise. A lot of people find violins screechy- Bokuto might have even been inclined to agree, a month ago. But on Akaashi, it’s beautiful. Smoother, easier, more like a soft breeze than a screeching wind. Bokuto’s eyes feel magnetised to the flicker of his eyelashes as his eyes lift between the strings and the book, the sharp angles of his hands as they flex against the neck, the furrow of concentration draping across his brow. 

The tune concludes with a low, sad kind of sound. He’s so caught up in just  _ staring _ at Akaashi that it almost fails to register completely- but once it does register, he basically erupts with the force of his accolades and praise. He’s standing, throwing himself into Akaashi’s space with only the mildest regard for the violin between them. He doesn’t even give Akaashi a chance to place it down, or steel himself. Just flops onto his knees atop the sheets, drops two palms heavy with warmth against Akaashi’s shoulders, leans in towards him with a luminous grin. 

“That was fucking… amazing, Akaashi! Like, seriously! I knew you were good, obviously, but that was really, really just… it was beautiful!” He sings, swaying from left to right with excitement. Distantly, his brain tacks a ‘ _ like you’  _ onto the end of that sentence. 

Akaashi’s flushing fully now under the attention and approval. He finally has a chance to collect himself, places the violin aside carefully and shuffles to sit in a more comfortable position. He pushes his glasses up once more, offers a real, fully-fleshed, earnest smile to Bokuto. The combination of warm cerise glowing across Akaashi’s face and the genuinity of the smile is too much, tightens his chest so hard he almost can’t breathe with it.

“Thank you, Bokuto. I made a few mistakes, and it’s kind of a simple tune, but… I like it. I’m glad you like it too.” He looks mildly sheepish as he speaks, obviously unused to the raw strength of Bokuto’s vibrant acclaim. Despite it though, there’s something glowing in his smile, like Bokuto’s approval is all he could have asked for. There’s a gap in the conversation as they stare at each other, then. It’s not uncomfortable- if anything, it’s overly warm, dripping with the syrupy haze between them as they simply smile and stare. He’s never been quite able to accurately decipher the colour of Akaashi’s eyes before, but right now, they’re unmistakably green toned. It’s like the dam breaks. It’s high risk and high reward, but Bokuto has never been one to play in halves or err on the side of caution. He just feels freely. It’s worked out for him so far. His arms droop slightly, loosen from striking excitement to a softer kind of affection. They slide down to rest against Akaashi’s forearms as he leans back on his knees slightly, elongates the space between them. 

“I really- Like, I don’t know. I just really like you, Akaashi. Not the way I like all my other friends, either. I mean it as in… more than that, y’know?” He offers, sets the words free into the air before the turbulence of self doubt has the chance to throttle them. “It’s okay if you don’t feel that way about me, of course! It won’t be weird. I just wanted to tell you.” 

Akaashi looks absolutely stricken for a moment- his shoulders tense for a second under Bokuto’s hands as the words linger, but as they seem to settle in, so do his shoulders. The flush has increased tenfold, into something verging on crimson. He’s smiling, in a smaller, honest sort of way that clenches tightly around Bokuto’s heart. 

  
“I feel the same way, Bokuto.” He responds simply, relaxing further under Bokuto’s grasp. The words go straight to his chest, loosen it into something light, airy. He feels like he could float away tucked amongst those words, hold onto each syllable and just fly away. He simply nods instead, grins. He can feel the heat pooling behind his own expression now. 

  
They don’t talk about it much beyond that, for that evening. There’s no need. For now, the acknowledgement is more than enough without a need to push further. If his hand finds Akaashi’s though, it does so softly and without comment. Akaashi’s hand just grabs back, which is all the affirmation he needs. 

\---

The ensuing months drip by even easier, then. It’s never actually a conversation that they have, but amongst the handholding and kisses and the dates, Bokuto thinks it’s pretty safe to say that Akaashi is his boyfriend. Either that, or they’re just  _ obscenely _ close friends and he’s been imagining things all along. He’d put money on the boyfriend, however. 

Autumn sets in slowly, nationals stepping closer by the day. It feels like the most intense game of Mr Fox he’s ever played- like he’s just supposed to stand, pretend this proverbial monster isn’t constantly creeping closer behind him. Akaashi’s there now at every practice, smiling and cheering. He’s even friends with the other members of the team now. It makes Bokuto feel like his chest is overspilling with the warmth it casts inside him, like molten metal.

Akaashi isn’t without his stressors either. There’s a performance- a big showcase. The entire orchestra has been practicing for months. They’re scheduled to play in one of the largest halls in Tokyo as an exhibition of Tokyo’s musical proficiency. It could mean scholarships to prestigious music schools, recognition, or even offers for post-graduation career opportunities. It’s an annual event, the penultimate result of countless cut fingertips and cramped hands from the endless practicing. Basically, as Bokuto understands it, it’s only slightly beneath a life and death scenario for Akaashi. He’s there at almost every orchestra practice, too. He no longer hides in the back, however. Instead he sits front and centre, right where Akaashi can see his beams of encouragement. 

Before either of them notice the time flicker by, the night is there. It’s cold out, cutting right to the bone. The hall hums with the low-level noise of countless voices chattering, audible even from backstage where Bokuto stands. He’s clasping Akaashi’s hands in his own, staring at him as he frets with anxiety. He leans in, kisses him for a moment, leaves his hands resting against his face. He offers all the encouragement he can force into one sentence before he’s being ushered out, told to return to his seat amongst the audience. The pallor of Akaashi’s face seems to lessen slightly with his words, so he’ll take his small victories wherever he can get them. 

He sits, next to Akaashi’s mother in a private corded off section to the side. He has full view of the stage from here. The hall seems to be immortalised in a golden casting from the glow of all the lights, shimmering like a freshly pressed coin. The stage is high, wooden with an immaculate varnish that reflects not even a scratch. Chairs set up in formation, ready for the ensuing orchestra. Music stands unfolded and displaying their books at attention. The crowd mumbles around him, almost every seat taken with the amount of bodies. It’s kind of emotional, actually, to envision Akaashi playing for a crowd so big. He deserves it, Bokuto thinks. 

The lights dim for a moment, leaving the audience in a comfortable blanket of cool darkness as the stage lights adjust, emblazoning the stage with a rush of stark, golden lighting that bounces off each and every face within the crowd. A man walks up briefly to the silver microphone stationed at the front of the stage, nods to the crowd in his freshly pressed suit as he announces the words ‘ _ Fukurodani Academy’  _ before retreating. The orchestra spills onto the stage almost instantly, finding their formation with a vaguely robotic ease as they sit, instruments positioned at the ready. 

It should be hard to spot Akaashi among the masses, but Bokuto’s eyes find him instantly. He looks somewhat more assured of himself from what Bokuto can see. The glitter of the gilded stage lighting gives him an almost ethereal look, he observes. Usually stage lighting is known to wash out, or make the performer look harsh, but all Bokuto can think of when he looks into Akaashi’s face is that he looks almost uncannily like the moon- glowing, steady, bright. 

The performance goes without hitch, vibrant notes rebounding off the shimmering walls and ceiling to swoop delicately across the hall. Bokuto loves to watch Akaashi play at home, in his pajamas and socks and unbrushed hair. But seeing him here, on stage for all to see with a pressed white shirt and a spotlight- that’s pretty mesmerising too. He comes to the conclusion that he probably just likes to see Akaashi play, period. 

There’s a spirited round of applause from the crowd as the piece comes to an end. Bokuto could make enough noise of adoration for them all, but it seems he doesn’t need to, as the cheers are thick and loud with their reverence. He’s never been so glowingly proud in his life. It’s almost choking, the rush of warmth that constricts around his throat, threatens to spike tears in his eyes. Akaashi’s mother seems to feel the same, if the watery grin she shows him is anything to go by. 

They slide carefully out of the audience, make their way to the designated friends and family area backstage. Akaashi is waiting, violin no longer in hand. The grin painted across his delicate features isn’t even slightly smothered with the need to remain calm- he basically sparkles with it. He’s leaning in, giving his mother a tight hug as she whispers her affirmations of pride, teary eyed and holding onto his shoulders tightly. Bokuto basically vibrates with the stalled urge to more or less  _ leap _ at him. As soon as Akaashi’s mother is finished singing her praises, she leaves to retrieve the violin. The minute he’s free to do so, he’s lifting Akaashi straight off the ground in a deep hug. To which, Akaashi just laughs, free and melodic with the adrenaline of performance. It’s almost addictive, that sound. 

As soon as he places Akaashi back down, he’s moving in for a deep kiss, which is returned with equal enthusiasm and a soft smile, hands coming to rest against the sides of his neck.

“You did so well, Keiji! You’re so amazing!” He’s tumbling over his own words as he speaks, can’t get the exaltation of his words out fast enough. His tone is basically dripping with the fondness it all makes him feel. Akaashi just grins in response, eyes crinkling lightly at the corners. The way his eyelashes flit against his cheeks and eyelids feels like something songwriters and poets should be writing about, in Bokuto’s humble and completely unbiased opinion. Akaashi leans in for a second again, looks to the side with a brief flicker of uncertainty before his stare solidifies again, locking with Bokuto’s own golden stare. 

“I love you.” Is all Akaashi offers in response, grin softening from one of wild adrenaline to something unspeakably softer. It essentially wipes Bokuto out then and there. He can’t quite mirror it back and lean in for another kiss fast enough. 

\---

Winter descends swiftly, after that. The New Year ticks over with a champagne coloured shimmer and an arm around his own, with fireworks and drinks that clink together like bells. Not even the cold can still him, with Akaashi’s hand grasped firmly in his own. 

They go to nationals. It’s a whirlwind of intensity- sterile gym lights, deafening cheers, the endless cacophony of volleyballs and grunts and impassioned commands and the harsh buzz of the scoreboard. It’s everything he loves, with Akaashi in the stands at every game, smiling and cheering in his own reserved way. He’s drowned out by the vibrant yells of the crowd, of course. But to Bokuto, just Akaashi’s smile alone is the loudest thing in the room. 

They go to nationals, and they give  _ everything. _ Anything they hadn’t already given in the hours of gruelling training, they give here. It feels like he’s laying down a part of his soul on the court with him, offering it up to the mercy of the blinking red LED lights embellishing the scoreboard. The pure ecstasy of their racking wins mixed with the guiding lantern of Akaashi’s support is enough to make him feel like he’s the king of the world as he spikes, spikes harder and with more precision than he’s ever spiked before. 

They go to nationals, and they lose. They make it right to the final- the precipice of it, the moment before the crescendo is supposed to happen. The notes are meant to blend together seamlessly, there’s meant to be harmonies, you’re meant to be sat in your seat, feeling everything the composer wants you to feel at its fullest as the sound washes over you like the tide. But it doesn’t happen- or, no, it does. There’s a crescendo alright. It’s just not for them.

He’s not ashamed to say he cries with the grief of it. It might seem like a dramatic word, grief, but that’s what it is. It’s everything that he’s wanted and worked for over the past three years, and now it’s gone. There’s no more chances for him- no more reassurances of  _ ‘we’ll crush nationals next year, Bokuto!’ _ , no more practices to come. That was it- that was his final performance, and he’s fumbled the mark. It should be a sweet note, but it comes out warped with dissonance, and he can no longer take it back. 

Akaashi is there. He’s there as an anchor, a source of encouragement, a reaffirmation that there was nothing else Bokuto possibly could have given. He’s there to be whatever Bokuto needs him to be, because he just  _ understands _ Bokuto in a way that really is starting to seem cosmically destined by now. He loses, and he falls apart, but Akaashi is there right behind him to stitch back the pieces. He really, really loves Akaashi, he thinks. 

He’s not okay for a long time afterward, but slowly he restores back to himself. Akaashi is more instrumental in that than Bokuto could ever hope to word. 

\---

The next two years slide by with the urgency of honey dripping from a spoon, after it all. Bokuto graduates- gets picked up by the Jackals almost immediately. A year after that, Akaashi is following, his own graduation cap in hand. Most relationships tend to fragment apart and crumble in that period, but there’s just something  _ different _ about the way he feels for Akaashi. Like not even heaven and earth could move it. They move from strength to strength easily. 

Akaashi’s final third year exhibition is a resounding success- he’s given a solo piece to play during their performance, in fact. One that secures him a top place in one of Tokyo’s leading music schools. It’s almost surreal, the celebrations afterwards. It’s funny how life just tends to shake out, despite whatever happens. He’s playing for the Jackals, Akaashi’s going to one of the top musical programs in the country, he’s still holding Akaashi’s hand day in and day out. As far as Bokuto’s concerned, that all spells for a spectacularly successful couple of years. They manage to even secure an apartment. It’s cheap, shitty and the pipes don’t work right, but between his Jackals contract and the money Akaashi makes offering violin lessons to local students, they manage to afford it pretty alright between themselves. There’s more benefits than drawbacks to having paper thin walls when you live with an obscenely talented musician, anyway.

As it is, he’s lazing across their sofa with his arms and legs outstretched in the morning sun that cascades through their windows. It’s a mild spring morning, the pollen count just high enough to itch at Bokuto’s eyes. Their walls are dull and faded, with the occasional mark or dent, but he hardly notices it with Akaashi standing tall before him. His violin rests in his arms, which currently hang lax at his sides with feigned annoyance. The bow swings in his hand as he gesticulates, points it at Bokuto with mock accusation.

“Koutarou, I’m being serious. You can’t just say everything I play is amazing. You have to point out what’s wrong with it, okay?” He admonishes, fondness creeping up to soften his tone much more than he probably intends to. The failed effort just makes Bokuto smile with the overwhelming affection he feels as he whines exaggeratedly, throws his head back against the pillow behind him. 

“That’s not fair, Keiji! I really mean it, I’m not just saying it! If there was something wrong I’d tell you, but I’m literally enamoured by everything you play. If you want criticism, stop being perfect!” He pauses for a second, frowns to himself. “Wait, was that criticism?” He follows up, looking to Akaashi with a confused stare, reminiscent of a bird that has just flown directly into a window. At this, Akaashi’s annoyed facade breaks apart entirely as he huffs a soft sound of amusement. 

“Technically, yes that was criticism. But it’s not the kind I’m looking for.” He pauses at that, leans slightly to set the violin carefully against their coffee table with the bow balanced on top. “You really have nothing wrong with it?” He finishes, tone lowering with softness and vulnerability. Bokuto sits up, as if that hammers his point in further. Looks Akaashi directly into his eyes, eyebrows raised. 

“Yes, Keiji. It is literally perfect. Your professor is going to shit himself when he hears it, honest!” 

“Gross, Koutarou.” Akaashi responds, smiling despite himself as he sinks next to Bokuto on their sofa. It’s from an aunt of Akaashi’s, old, lumpy and a slightly off-toned grey in colour. Not one of the decorative cushions match and there’s a long line of cat scratches on the outer left corner. He leans in to rest against Akaashi’s side, head coming to perch on his bony shoulder. 

“I’m just expressing how I feel, yeah?” He quips, eyes tracing over the form of the violin where it sits against the coffee table. He feels the motion of Akaashi nodding from his place against Akaashi’s shoulder. A moment later, Akaashi’s head comes to rest atop his own. He’d complain about Akaashi crushing the carefully constructed gel of his hair usually, but in this moment he’s content to just sit, crushed hair and all. 

“You’re really…” Akaashi starts, trails off into a pause. It’s not hesitation that stops him, more that he seems slightly unsure what words to use. “You know you’re like, everything to me, right?” Is what he settles on. Bokuto just grins to himself, curls his face downward to press into the soft fabric of Akaashi’s jumper. 

“Right back at you, Keiji. Would probably still be crying on the floor like a deflated balloon over nationals without you.” 

He’s so, so,  _ so  _ content. Face pressed against Akaashi’s shoulder, morning light streaming in, hair crushed under the weight of Akaashi’s chin.

He’s really glad he lost that post-it note after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> bokuto is just like you WILL submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known and you WILL feel the rewards of love in return WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT!!!! and tbh akaashi is just fine with that
> 
> as always, kudos and comments make the world go round! leave one, if you feel like it!  
> and follow my tumblr! osamuiya!


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